Happy birthday, Joy, ILYSM! You are seriously like one of my best Fanfiction friends and you are so talented and amazing and hilarious and I could go on forever… But happy birthday! I'm sorry this was late, but you know why. :) Enjoy being old! Besides, how old were you turning?

Love ya oldie.

prompts: Cam: "Do you remember that day in seventh grade where I let you paint my nails bright yellow because your hamster just died and you thought yellow was the happiest color?" Claire: "I'd do anything to go back to that day.", shopping at Walmart for "feminine things", a broken mascara wand, and Ghirardelli chocolate

pairing: Clam

Okay, on with da story!

.:the music we made and the dreams we dreamed:.

claire/cam

Is this thing on?

Hello there, stranger. My name is Cameron Fisher. Not Cameron Alegante Fisher the Third of Westchester. Just Cam. Just Cam. I don't have any of those Westchester names.ĥ

And I'm Claire Lyons. I am Cam's girlfriend, best friend, sidekick, partner in crime, and anchor. I ache for his mother if I wasn't here.

Claire, what are you doing here?! And I would not have become a druggie or gang member without you, FIY.

Cameron, I'm your girlfriend, which means you have no privacy. And I didn't mention anything about druggies or gang members...

Shut up, Claire. As I was saying, this is a recording of the epic love story of Cameron Fisher and Claire Stacey Lyons.

With awesome running commentary from Claire Stacey Lyons herself.

Sadly. Now, like all epic love stories, ours began with friendship.

And then that friendship became a deep burning desire to grab the other person and make out with them.

You're killing my romantic vibe here.

I am a vibe murderer.

I can tell. So, let's start with my life. I was brought into the world on a chilly autumn day on November 6, 1998.

And that day became the worst day in the history of the world.

Shut up. Now looking back, my younger years kind of blended together, so I'll just skip that part.

Jesus, Cam, you're fifteen, not eighty. And we are forever indebted to you for sparing us the boredom and pain of having to listen to you recall how Harris almost mentally damaged you for life.

Thanks for that bit Claire. NOW will you please let me get on with the story?!

Ugh, fine.

All through elementary school, I never showed any interest in the rich snobby high-class-

Anorexic, brain-dead, bimbo, bratty, spoiled, devilish, Westchester dolls.

For once you got something right. So I showed no interest in rich snobs, and I was pretty young. But that's besides the point. I first met Claire here in sixth grade. That day was the most memorable one in my life.

Gah, Mr. Romantic became Mr. So Cheesy and Sappy that I just want to murder him some times.

STOP. KILLING. THE. VIBE.

Yes, Mother.

We bonded over our mutual hatred for Westchester brats and dividing fractions. Not to mention our love of candy.

That's right. Some good times they were, good times.

Finally something positive comes outta your mouth. So, we became friends. And we stayed friends, just plain old agonizingly distant friends. Okay, we were pretty close friends. Best friends in fact.

Oh, the memories. Our life stories would sell for millions, I tell you.

Claire, remember that day in seventh grade where I let you paint my nails bright yellow because your hamster just died and you thought yellow was the happiest color?

I'd do anything to go back to that day.

Turns out that laughing hysterically whenever you saw my neon nails cheered you up.

Immensely.

Yes, together we stood by each other, together even through the most perilous of times.

Like the time we were in the hallway when Massie Block's mascara wand broke, and she blamed everyone within 1000 miles and threatened to destroy them over the plastic Shu Uemera stick.

What rich bitches do over a broken mascara wand.

Touche. Cam would love to relive the time that we went shopping at Walmart for "feminine products" because I got the thing that goes at the end of a sentence and my parents were too busy to take me and I didn't want to go alone.

Oh, God no. Sweet Jesus, Claire, please do not elaborate that story on tape. PLEASE.

Gladly. You should have seen, his face, I swear it turned a shade redder than the reddest color you can think off. Ah, g.

ANYWAY, remember when you broke out so badly from eating all the Ghirardelli chocolate that Mom had left over from Christmas stocking stuffers that your face looked like you were caught in a pizza factory explosion.

Hey Cam, word of advice: if you wanna live, you should start running as fast as you can.

Uh-oh. If I allow you to humiliate me further about the "Walmart incident" will we be even and then can I stop cowering under the kitchen table? I'm getting a little claustrophobic.

Hmm...tempting, tempting indeed. Although I really want to run you over with a cement truck and bury you alive, I really do want to relive the "Walmart incident".

Lord, please tell me why I suggested this?

Because you were an idiot who wanted to live?

Right. So here goes: Claire gets her period. Claire calls Cam. Claire forces Cam to go to Walmart to get pads and tampons. Cam protests. Claire threatens extreme bodily harm. Cam reluctantly agrees. Claire drags Cam to Walmart. Saleslady scares the shit outta Cam. Cam turns red. Cam runs. Claire buys stuff. Cam faints-

Hey why do you get so much attention?

Because I was the one being humiliated remember?

How could I forget? Continue please.

Claire drags Cam's lifeless body outside. Claire kicks Cam in gut. Cam wakes up. Claire threatens extreme bodily harm.

Gee, you sure have an animated way of storytelling.

Indeed I do. Now we skip over the stupidly weird and ridiculous and hilarious memories we had as FRIENDS and move into the DATING zone.

Easy on the all caps, Cammy. So yeah. Of course Cam- being Mr. Romantic- did something super cheesy and super sappy yet super sweet to win me over, which still surprises me to this day. Honestly I don't know why I'm still stuck with this dope.

Hey! So instead of me recapping the tale, let Claire enchant you with her captivating voice.

Can I get some wine with that cheese?

What the hell?! That made no sense at all. Isn't it: "Can I get some cheese with that whine?"

Same concept, Cammy Boy.

No, it's not that same. Now start.

Jesus, keep your pants on, Cam. So here goes: I was there innocently daydreaming about Cam on the swings in the elementary school playground while waiting for my stupid idiot jerkface of a brother to get out when SOMEONE pushed me. Guess who it was? Whoop-de-fucking-do, it was Cam. Conversation ensued:

Claire: "Hey idiot, what's up?"

Cam: "Hey dumb blonde girl."

Claire: "So...what's up?"

Cam: "Clairebear, I need to show you something."

Claire: "Well, okay."

Cam: "Stay here, it's a surprise."

And then I waited until he dragged me over to this secluded clump of willows, knelt down before me, and slid a Ring Pop onto my finger with the words, "Claire Stacey Lyons, will you be my girlfriend?" I still have no idea why, but I nodded dumbly and kissed him. And then we all lived happily ever after from the end of seventh grade until now, middle of sophomore year.

So that's the story so far. But like all epic love stories, the ending shall die with us.

That's a bit extreme don't you think?

Shut up. But it will always and forever be, the fault in our stars.

So how was it, Joy? (and all you other people)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Love,

Anastasia